where the winds are cold
by Tsume Yuki
Summary: In which the Wild Wolf runs away with his Magic Girl. (Female Harry Potter)


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280AC

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It's a huge scandal. Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell, found in bed with a mysterious dark-haired woman. Only it's so much worse than that. Because unlike the handful of incidents before this one (all of which hastily hushed up by his raging father), well, he refuses to kick the girl out this time in what later becomes known as the Great Stark Stand-off.

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There's a young woman lying face down in the snow. Cautiously, Brandon Stark slinks forwards, one hand to his sword on the chance this is a trick.

"My Lady, are you well?" He's not too optimistic. One moment there's been no other person in the clearing. The next, a loud crack and a body clothed as he's never seen another person before. Cautious is not a way of life Brandon Stark has ever lived so he charges forwards, sliding his cloak free. He turns the woman, halfway to scooping her up when brilliant green eyes snap open and meet grey.

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"You've got to put you're weight and momentum behind the swing. Otherwise you'll never get anywhere." Harrie hums in agreement, watching the strange boy (man, he's a man) swing Gryffindor's sword to and fro, stance wide and strong but face open and friendly. She's not really paying his footwork too much attention (after all, she fights with magic, what use does she have of a sword?) but are her eyes focused? Yes, yes they are.

Brandon Stark smiles at her and Hariel Potter feels something in her stomach warm.

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"Bran! Where are you going?!"

"Can't stick around, Ly, places to go, people to meet."

"People?!" Lyanna repeats but it's too late. Brandon's already swung his leg up and over the saddle and taken off, the hooves flattering against the stone cobble in time with Lyanna's heartbeat. Something's up with her big brother. He's never this evasive (that's her) nor is he this… distracted (that's Ben). Hell, he's been unusually quiet during meal times, not to the point of rivalling Ned (and Gods does she miss her brother) but for Brandon's usual loud demeanour? Yeah, it's a bit of a change. A whole lot of a change. And she's will find out what's going on.

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Brandon's teeth nip hot and hard against her collarbone and Harrie huffs, shoving his grinning head down and away. The fool muffles his laughter against her breast, his stomach fluttering with each chuckle from where it presses up against her hip. She's got no idea what she's doing right now, no idea but… but she likes Brandon. Likes him a whole lot (and is this the same hard-fast intensity with which her father had fallen for her mother? Is this the same Potter love-struck hamstring?) and it's making her stupid.

But she's done so much already, saved a world and fled from it, ran before they could demand more, before they could stretch her every which way and tear her to pieces. She'd ran and it'd been the best decision she'd made.

The second best had been falling into Brandon Stark's bed. That'd been fun, has been fun (will be fun?).

Now, the question of if she should leave-

"Stay," Brandon grumbles as if reading her thoughts, strong arms wrapping tight around her waist. She's only eighteen, freshly eighteen, and he's just a few months older but her own parents were engaged by this age. What is the definition of 'too young' anyway? Teeth nip at her breast and Harrie chokes out a cry of surprise, snatching up a fistful of Brandon's hair to pull him up and away now.

"Ow, rough," and his voice isn't indignant but playful, teasing. There's no protest there what so ever.

"You like rough," Harrie gripes, unable to stop the flush of her cheeks as she recalls the previous night.

"I like rough," Brandon confirms while shaking her hand free of his hair, one arm reaching over her form to find foundations beside her ribs, supporting his large form as he comes to rest above her. With every breath she takes the tops of her ribs kiss against his. "I like hair pulling, nails in my shoulders, teeth at my lips," he licks a long strip along her neck, growling into the skin and Harrie firmly decides stay is a fantastic option. "And," Brandon continues, voices lighter now, a soft tone contrasting harshly against the tight hold he's got on one of her thighs, "and I like you. More than I should. The magic girl who came from nowhere and scared off my game."

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They'd met when Brandon had been out hunting, riding in the woods. He'd claimed to be out looking for game in order to score a good fur coat, something he could present his darling little sister for her birthday. Then, of course, Hariel Lillian Potter has been dropped right there from her 'flee the wizarding world' portal. That'd been two weeks ago and while she'd been living in a tent in that location since… she's not slept in that tent every night, so to speak (the first ten days, but the last four? Well…)

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"Show me some more magic? Any magic." And there's something thrilling, something incredibly enchanting to see the innocent wonder in Brandon's eyes whenever he asks for that. Harrie gives in, she gives in every single time he asks. A mind untainted by the concept of dark magic, one that shares her fascination with the energy she commands. So Harrie twirls her hand, breathing a simple ball of light into existence. It's warm in her hands but not scorching as fire would be. She passes it to Brandon, trying to decide if she should bemoan the loss his carnal interest or not. He spins it between his fingers, light catching on every scar his skin boasts. The other hand settles on her hip as she sits up, an arm around her back and pulling her closer.

"You've got some magic in you too," Harrie whispers, pressing a forefinger against his chest, just over the spot she's been nibbling on the previous night. It's the truth, she can feel it thrumming beneath his breastbone, aching to get out. But there's a sludge in the air (a sludge that has been retreating further and further with every day Harrie spends here) that's been constricting the magic, enough so that there'd be no instances of accidental magic until it's gone. Brandon, Brandon just needs training in it.

(Harrie had enjoyed teaching once, before the pressure and circumstances destroyed that).

"Teach me?"

"Sure thing, Wolf Boy."

They get caught. Harrie's been expecting it for a while; there's only so much she can avoid with Death's cloak and some tricky spell-work. Three and a half weeks is more than what Brandon had predicted. When they get caught, however, they're not even indecent. In fact, Harrie is fully clothed in leggings, shirt and socks (thick wooden socks), her boots kicked off by the bedside. So what if the shirt is one of Brandon's that she's nabbed? She'd let him steal away with her enchanted boots that resized accordingly and left wolf-prints instead of footprints. A joke gift from Fred and George; she had one for each true Marauder. It leaves her with deer and dog. She can part with the wolf pair for the Wolf Boy to enjoy. The point is, it's near innocent. Two friends playing with magic… but this land is stuck in medieval times and heaven forbid a girl and guy be alone together. The... maid(?) gasps in horror at the sight, Brandon's head snapping up from the ball of light he'd finally summoned. It pops out of existence, fizzles away like a candle flame under the rain. She rather thinks their expressions will be a mirror; wide guilty eyes and slightly parted lips, hunched over and probably too close than should be appropriate.

"Well, shit," Brandon hisses, dragging a hand down the side of his face and scowling for his apparent worth. He repeats himself with another "shit," snarled out from between his lips and then he's gathering Harrie up in his arms, planting his chin down atop the crown of her messy black hair. "Fuck the fish," which means nothing to Harrie in the slightest, "I'll have my magic girl or no one at all." Sweet. She's still confused as hell though.

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The 'fish', as it turns out, is one Caitlyn Tully whom Brandon is engaged to ("politically and through no choice of my own; I don't even know her or want her!"). Who he's supposed to marry in a year or two. Whose father is rather powerful and will not be best pleased to learn of his daughter's intended whoring himself among whatever easy women he can stumble across. That's all from the mouth of Brandon's father who stands at Brandon's door and roars at them through the wood. The only reason he's not barged in yet is because the locking charm was the first thing Brandon requested to be taught and Harrie… Harrie's not really in a rush to open that threshold, still trying to digest everything she's heard.

But after five minutes to sit on all of that… she doesn't really care. If Brandon wants her and she wants him… well it won't be the first time she's thumbed her nose up at bigwigs in power. Won't be the first or the last. So she drapes herself across Brandon's lap, catches his eyes and throws him her best 'Gryffindor trouble' grin. It's a trademark expression that's soon swallowed down by Brandon's lips. Yeah, this is good.

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"No! I'm done with this! Throw the fish Ed's way, I've caught something better!" Brandon's voice thunders through the room, deep and throaty and furious. A wolf's growl. Brandon paces the room, a caged animal in all but body but as determined and wilful as the territorial horntail Harrie had faced in her fourth year. She lays on the bed, cocooned in layers of silk and cotton and fur, playing with 'Potential Putty'; another of the twins' kid-toys, it works in conjunction with a child's magic to form different shapes. A focusing device for tiny witches and wizards. Brandon's spent most of the morning creating wolves that chase after each other. Harrie finds much more interest in making a flower continually bloom, petals folding back and merging with the stem, constantly cycling through its summer metamorphosis.

"Brandon Stark-"

"No! I will not bare my throat on this one!" They've not left this room in four days. While Harrie plenty capable of making water, food had been more of an issue. Thankfully, Brandon's darling little sister had been more than willing to scurry into the courtyard with a basket of food, hastily levitated up to them through a quick flex of Harrie's magic.

"We're going to leave," Brandon mutters beneath his breath, eyes taking on a glimmer that has the rose in Harrie's hand stalling in its bloom.

"Huh?"

"I can't, can't live like this. Can't go back to pretending it's not real and making do with the cold fish and-" he cuts off, turning to really look at her and then suddenly it's like someone has punched her in the gut. Brandon Stark smiles at her as if she's somehow the most important thing in the room. "Run away with me, Magic Girl."

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So, they do. Run, that is. In the middle of the night they flee upon the back of a Firebolt, Brandon's arms wrapped tight around her waist as she guides them off into the night's sky where they fly for hours. In all honesty, Harrie doesn't have the slightest idea where they are, but Brandon seems certain they're in Dorne because-

"It's hottttt," Brandon moans, lounging across her legs, head in her lap so he can better peer up at her with those molten silver eyes. Harrie grins, tapping the tip of his nose with her forefinger and he responds with a playful snap of his teeth. The grass is warm beneath her legs, Brandon's pale torso slathered with the wizarding equivalent of sun-cream and Harrie hopes he's as high on happiness as she is. She'd never have done this before, never would have run so freely. There'd always been responsibilities, loved ones (and innocents) to protect. But… she's tired, oh so tired of carrying the world on her shoulders. So, she's shrugged off Atlas' burden, much as Brandon himself seems to have done. They've run, run far and fast and free. A wild wolf and a worldly witch, travelling together and utterly intoxicated with one another.

"It's like, late spring weather. Maybe English summer," Harrie counters, running her fingers through Brandon's wild curls, the dark brown slickening with sweat. He smiles again, closing his eyes and relaxing into the motion. One of his hands is stroking at her calf, the other clutching a half-eaten apple he's not yet through with.

"Maybe where you're from. I'm used to a Northern summer. I'm gonna melt here," he moans, head turning so his nose can bury itself into the softness of her stomach. Laughing at the motion, Harrie pulls one curl straight, rolling the tip between her fingers before she lets it spring back into the position.

"Don't worry, I'll keep the Brandon slop in a jar until winter comes and you can reform."

"Funny. You'd miss me if I was slop. Who'd be able to rub their fingers against-" Brandon laughs as she tries to cover his lips, silencing his lewd sentence before he can complete it. After three breaths passes from between his parted lips without a word, Harrie removes her fingers. Not, however, before the Stark in her lap licks at them.

"Hush."

"I think you got the idea," Brandon whispers, a grin to his lips and a light to his eyes. Harrie can't help but to cup his face, to press their lips together and remain that way until her back aches from the awkward bend. "You know, you're the modern Jenny of Oldstones."

"Jenny of what?" Harrie parrots, cocking a brow as her thumb strokes at the sharp curve of Brandon's jaw.

"A woman from about 40 years ago. Prince Duncan fell in love with her and ultimately gave up his claim to the throne for her. Of course, she wasn't magic like you but they still sing songs of her beauty and the tale itself."

"Don't dare write me a song." At that, Brandon sits up, twisting until she's between his bent legs, his knees caging her ribs in and her own forcibly moved to accommodate his rear end. All so he can better look into her face, silver to green.

"By the Old Gods, if I were to ever attempt writing a song, there would be nothing but you to write about. The magic girl who dances so well but sings so poorly. Not to mention how throaty you get when I- ow!"

"That is exactly why you're not allowed write a song," Harrie grumbles as Brandon nurses his smarting ear with a wounded expression but mischief in his eyes, "because you'd make it as crude as possible."

"Even if I tease you, my lady, there is no way I would share those words with the world. The only one who gets to know how you behave in bed is me." Teeth graze her lower lip and Harrie grins into the kiss, hands coming to rest up Brandon's strong shoulders. She just knows he'll serenading her with the most ridiculous song in the history of ridiculous songs soon enough. She can't wait.

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* * *

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280AC

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"The crown prince is getting married. It would be rude not to turn up."

Grinning back at his magic girl, Brandon Stark hefts the 'backpack' higher, adjusting the straps until it rests even over his collarbones. Behind him and clad in a pair of 'jeans' so tight it's sinful, Harrie slings her own bag over her shoulder and smiles back at him. It's been three weeks since they ran; it's only ten weeks into the start of the new year. Seven weeks since they fled. But Harrie and he are free. They fly during the night, atop brooms Harrie's people enchanted to fly. While he's not as keen nor as smooth a flier as Harrie, he can finally take off and land on his own without throwing himself onto the ground. To think, he had once thought riding a horse was the pinnacle of movement. It's a strange kind of exhilaration to be able to dart through the air with only a thin piece of wood between his legs and, yet, feel like a king. King Brandon and his Queen Harrie, ruling over the clouds. Perhaps Harrie could use her magic to construct a castle in the sky? Perhaps Brandon could learn to harness his own magic to the point where he could do it himself. it's food for thought. Something to consider later. Probably best to focus on the here and now, as is.

"Wouldn't it be worse for the disgraced Stark son to rock up to the celebrations?" Skipping forwards, Harrie slips her hand into his, her small fingers cold and dry against his own that remain warm and clammy. Southern weather; disgusting. He can't wait for winter to hit while they travel through this place. Humming, Brandon swings their hands back and forth a few times, ignoring the gawking smallfolk who are flat out staring at the two of them. It's like they've never seen a beauty such as Harrie so happy and free. Given how close this village is to the capital, however, that might be the case.

"Who knows? I'll have my Magic Girl to get me out if that's the case, right?"

"Well I'm not about to let you die now that I've stole you from your tower."

"Oi!" Abandoning Harrie's hand in favour of pinching her side for the blatant disrespect (him, a captive in a tower, honestly), Brandon gives chase as Harrie takes off running, her shrieking laughter echoing among the people. She disappears into the crowd, short black hair already difficult to pick out and now, surrounded by people who are of a similar height to her lovely self, she vanishes.

Cursing, Brandon cuts his way through the common folk, listening hard for the source of the laughter. He can hear her delighted giggles but it's difficult to pinpoint. Even reaching for his magic doesn't help; he's not controlled enough to even begin using it to locate her. He can barely keep a bauble of light going for a few minutes.

A snap to his left has Brandon swinging around and there Harrie is, camera in hand and a new snapshot being steadily produced from the mouthpiece.

"Give me that!" He snatches the thin parchment before she can, huffing when he finds his own startled face staring back at him. Great. "You know, this… camera, is entirely unfair. Portraits take hours and it is impressed upon the artist that we need to look our best. You, on the other hand, capture the absolute worst things." Harrie laughs, grabbing his arm and throwing it over her shoulders.

"Just smile!" The camera is angled towards him and Brandon manages a startled smile just in time for the snap. This picture is leagues better, if only because Harrie occupies half the parchment. All short black hair and startlingly green eyes. She's wearing one of his old tops. It's not done, wearing a man's top, especially one you are so clearly having sex with. He loves it.

"Let's send it to my father." If anything, Lyanna would get a kick out of seeing it.

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They sneak into the capital with a trade wagon, having paid to catch a ride on the back. Harrie sits beside him and their boots knock against one another; he wonders if word has reached this place, this cesspit of politics. Word that the Stark heir has fled, enamoured with a woman to such a degree he has abandoned his inheritance for her. He has everything he needs; the tent is luxury to the highest degree and it is mobile. What need is there for a vast household when there is magic to clean and cook; what need is there for guards and fortifications when the tent can be picked up and moved? Brandon Stark is young, wild and free. He's also hopelessly in love with a girl too magical for this world. Which is why he's impressed upon Harrie that they cannot, under any circumstances, use magic in the capital. Not unless they want the Mad King's focus. While he has complete trust in Harrie's ability to free them both, in her ability to outrun and outmanoeuvre Aerys Targaryen… the ability of the Stark family to keep themselves safe is a very different thing. He might be at odds with his father, but Ned, Ben and Ly shouldn't have to suffer for him.

He'll protect them and if that means keep a lid on magic for the moment, a lid he shall keep.

"Are we getting dressed up, or are we going in disguise?" Head dropping to rest on his shoulder, Harrie all but slumps into his side, arms wrapped around one of his own and her cheek warm enough he can feel it through the fabric of his shirt.

"I won't pass on the opportunity to sneak about beneath your invisible sheet."

"It's an invisibility cloak," Harrie corrects with a huff, good humour pouring off her in waves and Brandon hums, thumb brushing over the top of her thigh. He's young, he's in love and he's ready to do something stupid.

"If my father catches me, he'll make me wed The Fish at sword-point." He can see it; his father so desperate to join the Southerners in their great game instead of worrying about rallying the North for whatever lengthy winter will snatch them up. And there will be a lengthy winter in his lifetime, Brandon can feel it. Let's hope his father decides to hand Ned the reigns soon; then, at least, the North will have a chance. Ned has a good head on his shoulders, even if he is a bit stiff about anything and everything. He's so well leading the North, Brandon's sure of it. That kind of responsibility is ill-suited for him.

"But he can't do that if I'm already married" Brandon declare, extracting his arm from Harrie's grasp to wind it around her waist instead, possessive fingers cradling her hip.

"That's a crappy proposal."

"I can serenade you-"

"Yes, I'll marry you, no need to take drastic measures." Brandon laughs, hiding his face in the curve of Harrie's neck. Is he crazy? He's known Harrie for so short a time but.. but they are right for each other. As a crown suits a just king, as the wolves move as a pack, as a sword rests within a sheath, he just knows it. Harrie is the one for him, so extraordinarily different from anyone he has ever known and life is an adventure. It's freedoms and pleasure rolled into one woman. With her, marriage won't be the ball and chain; it'll be open skies and flight, touching the clouds, weightlessness. It'll be perfection.

"Let's get married, Magic Girl," he whispers it into the skin of her neck, breathes it into the very blood in her veins. Hopes that the promise of their future together ghosts across her being as his warm breath does. "Marry me and everyday will be an adventure. I can't promise perfection, and we'll fight and argue and we'll laugh and cry. We'll live as only wild things can." Because Brandon Stark has never been shy about taking what he wishes. He knows what he wants, he wants Harrie and everything she promises. Wants that freedom, that other half to run with. The lone wolf dies, but the mated pair will survive and thrive and build their own pack. "Just say yes."

"Now, that's more like it. Yes, let's get married."

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There's a small sept in the capital. It's not Baelor's Sept but, even if he had been capable of marrying Harrie within its walls without bringing down suspicious kingsguards on their heads, she wouldn't have wanted that. He would have married in a Sept of the Seven anyway. Instead, he manages to find a small place that holds true to the Old Gods.

Harrie turns up in the most exquisite white dress, all lace and silks and materials that he cannot even begin to name. There are precious gems woven into the shoulder-length strands of her dark hair, so small and subtle that the sparkle like the night's stars. She looks ethereal, the warmth of humanity captured within the smattering of freckles that kiss at the bridge of her nose. Perhaps the Old Gods guided her to him; Brandon would spend every day praying in thanks should he need to. Vows are spoken, hands wrapped in traditional fabrics.

A kiss is exchanged, interrupted by a dry cough when it lasts just a tad too long. Harrie is flushes, not with embarrassment but with life itself, a smile on her face that nothing in this world could ever manage to kill. Her vows had been her own, a promise of eternity and loyalty and adventure. Brandon, he has promised her excitement, promised her love, promised happiness. No declarations for protection; neither of them need it and now, as man and wife, they are a team.

Harrie refers to herself as his 'wifey' now and Brandon laughs himself sick and the endearment. He's not even sure what is so funny. Perhaps the absurdity of it all. For a brief moment in the previous year he'd believed a cold, loveless marriage to be his future, riddled with affairs that'd be held against him. Now, he's married for love and happiness and he cannot image another woman would catch his attention as thoroughly as Harrie has.

Sex as man and wife had been spectacular. That Harrie had been able to repair her dress the next morning even better; he plans on asking her to model it for him again at a later date. Though where those hair gems went, he cannot even begin to guess. Perhaps he's a fool, perhaps he's lost his mind. Perhaps he'll still write Harrie a song after all. Brandon Stark is young, free and in love. And it's the greatest feeling in the world.

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* * *

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At a sudden shriek, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen startles, twisting to look for the source. The wedding has approached swiftly (far too swiftly) and in a mere sen-night e shall be wed. It's a terrifying thought. But, for the Prince that was Promised, it is a step that must be taken. So, it is with sore feet he shall stride forwards. However, it is not yet time. He does have time to investigate the cause of that scream.

"Arthur." His oldest friend understands his unspoken request, dismounting his horse and drawing his sword. Rhaegar follows, sword in hand as the common folk part. There's a small garden down this street, he recalls simply because his mother had seen it clean up a year pitot. Within, the source of the shriek is visible and Rhaegar's shoulders tense. A young woman with hair sheered short is caged within a man's arms; he almost shouts, almost demands the man release her at once. He notices their laughter just in time, however. Beside him, Arthur relaxes, loosening his grip and stepping backwards. The woman, with hair sheered short and clothed in pants tighter than should be appropriate, laughs again, planting a hand against the man's cheek and pushes him away.

"Your scruff is itchy!"

"You like the scruff, dearest wifey, especially when it's rubbing up agains- oomph!" The man takes an elbow to the stomach and now, his face removes from the giggling woman's neck, Rhaegar realises it is no common man or lower lord after all. While they had only met twice before, he can recognise those distinctive features. It would seem the tale of the Stark heir's elopement holds more than a grain of truth.

"Is all well here?" Arthur. His dear friend proves as capable as cutting into a situation as he is cutting through bandits, stilling both the Stark and his... wife? (Wifey hints towards marriage; an endearment, perhaps?) the duo twist to look at them, irritation flashing across Brandon Stark's face while only curiosity is visible upon the woman's. Before Rhaegar can speak, before he can introduce himself, the woman takes advantage of the Stark's pause, mercilessly digging her fingers into his side and wriggling them. While the sound the falls is deeper than the one that drew both Arthur and Rhaegar here, it is undoubtedly a shriek that escapes Brandon Stark's mouth as e dances out of the woman's grasp.

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After a moment of trying to even the playing fields with each other, both Stark and his companion halt and introduce themselves. It is indeed Brandon Stark who stands before him, his companion introduced as Lady Hariel Stark, née Potter. They casually explain their story, how swift they were to fall for one another, how they married but three day prior. Brandon Stark is a wild creature in human skin and it appears as if he has found a complimentary character in the woman he calls 'wifey'.

The thought that this man, driven by his emotions and instincts, had been so close to running the largest of the seven kingdoms is a chilling one. That is not to say Brandon Stark is not a good man, but Rhaegar doubts his impulse control. Certainly, it does not appear as if he has picked a wife who can aid him with that. It shall only be a matter of time before the North declares its change in succession and Rhaegar welcomes the idea. It's not that he hasn't enjoyed his time with Brandon and the Lady Harrie; as people they are pleasant company. As leaders in anything but war, however, he doubts their capabilities.

As they part for the evening and foreseeable future, Lady Harrie pressing a wrapped gift into his hands and proclaiming it a wedding present for himself and Elia, he finds his mind spinning.

"Arthur?"

"Yes, my Prince?"

"Remind me in the future that I must introduce myself to the second Stark. Let us hope this one more level-headed than Brandon Stark."

And if he feels just the tiniest bit of jealousy for the man's freedom and clear happiness, then Rhaegar doesn't breathe a word of it.


End file.
